


Sometime Around Midnight

by cherrystreet



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, based on the song 'sometime around midnight' by airborne toxic event
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 14:23:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11359305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrystreet/pseuds/cherrystreet
Summary: It's a Tuesday evening when Louis hears that the band is in town. It's poor timing, really; he has precisely a thousand and one documents to catch up on for work, his flat needs a desperate cleaning that he's put off for weeks, and he's been fighting off a cold since Friday that finally seems to be winning. He stares at the band’s flyer posted online - a bleak announcement that they're back for one night only at their old stomping ground, a shit time slot right around midnight - and he gives it about 90 seconds before he's leaping off the couch, looking for his wallet.Or, Louis is trying to get over his ex, and he thinks that paying their favourite band a visit might help bring him some closure.He's wrong.---Tumblr





	Sometime Around Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> You know when you hear a song that haunts you so much, you sort of feel like you’re looking into the writer’s soul and you want to know what the hell happened to inspire music like that?
> 
> I listened to a song like that nine years ago and I still think about it all the time. And it finally got the best of me.
> 
> It's called "[Sometime Around Midnight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UYPoMjR6-Ao)" by The Airborne Toxic Event. This story is based off of that song. I suggest you give it a listen xx

It's a Tuesday evening when Louis hears that the band is in town. It's poor timing, really; he has precisely a thousand and one documents to catch up on for work, his flat needs a desperate cleaning that he's put off for weeks, and he's been fighting off a cold since Friday that finally seems to be winning. He stares at the band’s flyer posted online - a bleak announcement that they're back for one night only at their old stomping ground, a shit time slot right around midnight - and he gives it about 90 seconds before he's leaping off the couch, looking for his wallet.

The last thing he should be doing is slipping out of his joggers and into a pair of dirty jeans from the top of his laundry bin, not bothering to put in contacts or attempt to style his hair. He knows it’s a terrible idea to revisit the band that he’s spent so many nights swaying to alongside his boy, music they’ve kissed and danced to, music that quickly became the soundtrack to their relationship. Music that was mediocre at best, but it was  _ theirs _ . It’s all he can think about every time he hears the tinny beat pulsing through his headphones. It used to be soothing. Now, it breaks his heart.

He goes, anyway, driven by a force he can’t explain, needs to be immersed in the band they once shared and loved together. Just for tonight, to feel like he’s okay.

He leaves the light hanging over the kitchen table turned on, flicking off the rest, a new habit. Coming home to a dark and empty home over the past 12 weeks is worse than the 60-hour work weeks he's been juggling; at least when he's at his desk, he can focus on the endless piles of paperwork instead of the ache he knows he’ll feel just after he stumbles in over the welcome mat, no one else to be found, not like before.

He grimaces when he catches his reflection in the mirror beside the closet on his way out the door. The bags under his eyes are swirled shades of green and purple, his cowlick seems to have a mind of its own, his stubble now a full on beard, a little wild and a lot messy. He sighs, shrugging on his jacket. It's raining, the weather complete and utter shit. He can't be bothered to put any real effort into his appearance, not when it'll be ruined just four or five steps off the kerb, courtesy of the wind and rain steadily whipping around outside. And chances of him bumping into anyone he knows are slim to none, anyway. It's a miserable  _ Tuesday _ , late and bleak during the middle of a work week. No one is going to be attending this show tonight, the headliner a no-name, underground band, their top hit something that hasn't even hit major radio stations yet. He won’t be found tonight, thank God. He’ll be hidden and tucked away in the back corner of the sleazy bar, the best venue the band could apparently muster up.

It doesn't matter, though, because he's not going for the ace music or for a quality, cushy arena. He's going for comfort. He’s going so he can feel something. He's going because he can't help it, his feet guiding him out the door before he's fully decided he wants to go.

By the time Louis arrives, his shoulders are damp from the rain, his glasses lenses fogged up and dotted with raindrops. He can't see much when he digs into his pocket for the cover charge, handing over the crumpled bill, shaking the water off the ends of his hair.

“Nice weather,” the man at the entrance quips.

Louis forces a smile. “Yeah, I’m soaked, and I only live three blocks from here.”

“Oh, you're a local lad.”

“I am.”

“I thought you looked familiar. You come here often, yes?”

He shrugs. “Not as much as I used to.”

“Sure, sure. Well. Enjoy yourself tonight, mate. Heard the band tonight is fairly decent.”

“Yeah, I've seen them a few times,” Louis says, peering inside. “They're good.”

“Better than the guys last night. A right mess, they were.”

“Glad I missed it, then.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

Louis laughs as he says goodnight and pushes inside, the room still mostly empty. It looks the same as it always has. Floorboards worn and creaky, the light aimed at the stage showing off the mismatched area rugs, the bartender the same woman from Louis’ last few visits. Jill, he thinks. Or Jen. Or Jess. Joanie? Definitely something with a J.

He makes his way up to the bar, weaving in and out of the people starting to make their way inside, puddles beginning to form on the floor from the weather. He leans up against the counter, examining the rings from leftover glasses on the surface, tracing his finger along the edge of an abandoned coaster. He looks up when he feels the bartender staring, trying to get his attention.

“Hi, love, what’ll you have?”

Louis stretches on the tips of his toes to peer over the counter. “What’ve you got on tap?”

She rattles off a variety of choices, the list clearly memorized, and Louis holds up his hands to stop her.

“The second one is fine.”

“Do you even remember what it was?”

He shrugs. “No. Do you?”

She laughs. “Uh, yeah, it's kind of my job to remember.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m easy. Surprise me.”

“The amount of times I've heard that in this very bar…”

“Infinite, I'm sure.” He smiles briefly. “‘m Louis, by the way.”

“Delilah,” she replies, and Louis almost snorts.

He takes his drink and situates himself up against the back wall, leaning up against it, surveying the crowd. There's probably about 300 people present - more than he thought would show up - and when the lights dim, a restless cheer goes through the room. The band walks out on stage, taking their usual positions at their instruments, and when the first strum of the guitar echoes throughout the space, Louis exhales deeply. He knows immediately what song it is, one that he's heard live seven or eight, maybe, times, way more through the speakers of his headphones, sometimes humming quietly to himself, sometimes with an audience of one.

It's around the third song that Louis realizes this might be the worst idea he's had in his 25 years of life thus far. He was hoping hearing these songs, being enveloped in these melodies, would feel like closure, would bring some peace or serenity or happiness. Instead, his mind is a whirlwind of memories - some bad, mostly good - and the pit settling at the bottom of his stomach is growing with every lyric.

This isn't what he wanted. None of this is what he wanted.

He eventually loses track of how many drinks he has, loses track of what song plays next. He keeps on with the beer, eventually switching to hard liquor. The floors appear to be moving, the lights harsh and unforgiving. Louis hangs onto a barstool for support, eventually moving to the back wall. He wants to go home, but he feels glued to his spot, the plinking of the piano keys simultaneously keeping him frozen and wanting to run away.

And then he spots something - someone - out of the corner of his eye, and it's not just the alcohol making him nauseous anymore.

He doesn't move. He's afraid to. Instead, he prays Harry didn't notice him, is engrossed enough with the group he's with to leave Louis as the invisible man. Louis eyes the exit, cursing under his breath when he realizes he'll have to walk directly by Harry to escape. He desperately tries to plot a route to get the hell out of here - soul searching be damned - and suddenly hates this band more than anything. This song is gut wrenching. He's going to vomit while trying and failing to avert his gaze from the boy with the free curls, the green eyes that keep secrets and ambition and courage, the arms that have held Louis through every moment, whether that be weak or strong.

Not anymore.

Louis can pinpoint the exact moment Harry sees him. It's like he's just seen a ghost, his entire body going tense, the smile dropping from his face. Louis watches as Harry’s friend - why does Harry have friends that Louis doesn't know, Goddamnit - keeps talking, gesturing with his hands, but Harry’s expression makes it evident that he isn't listening. He's focused on Louis, and just like always, it makes Louis squirm.

Harry isn't blinking as he approaches Louis, and Louis’ mind is screaming  _ fight or flight, fucking pick a side _ . His heart is racing, vision blurry, and he doesn't get to decide what to do or where to go or how to calm himself the fuck down because then Harry’s there, right in front of him.

“Louis,” he whispers, his voice low enough that Louis has to strain to hear it over the music. “God, how’re you?”

Louis swallows, his throats somehow dry, suddenly remembering what he's wearing and what he looks like.  _ Should've flown. _ “Hey there, Styles. ‘m good.”

“You look good,” he says, like he's agreeing.

He resists the urge to laugh uncomfortably, just shakes his head instead. “You look… tall.”

“Yeah, I've been doing my best to grow.”

“Shut up,” Louis replies, his cheeks hot.

Harry smirks, biting down on his bottom lip. “It's okay. I feel weird, too.”

“Yeah?”  _ Relief. _

“Yeah,” he confirms. “It's been a while.”

“Understatement.”

Louis takes a second to steal a glance at Harry. He doesn’t look much better than Louis does. He looks worn down, his own eyes bloodshot and demeanor less perky than usual, like he’s tired. Louis can relate. At least Harry had the decency to wear something that isn’t, presumably, from his dirty laundry bin.

They both stand together awkwardly for a moment or two, Louis doing his best not to stare at the new tattoo on Harry’s forearm. He doesn't know what it is or when he got it. The pounding in his temples intensifies. He looks up and attempts to match Harry’s gaze, but it’s hard. It’s not because of the alcohol.

“So, who’re you here with,” he says. He tries to come off as casual but he knows it sounds weak. “Anyone I know?”

Harry shrugs, looking back over at his group. “I don’t think so. Some guys I met after work a month or two ago.”

“Oh.” The band picks starts up another song and Louis has to close his eyes. This one hurts. He does his best to block it out. “You’ve been good, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he replies. He looks down at the floor when he says it. “Been busy.”

“With what?”

“Work, family,” Harry says, ticking the items off on his fingers as he goes, “solving world hunger…”

“Oh, good, you’ve finally gotten your head out of your arse long enough to do something productive.”

He smiles at that, a full blown smile, and Louis has to grip the brick wall behind him to remain standing upright. He’s seen that smile so many times - over breakfast, in bed while he traces lazy shapes across Louis’ skin, visiting their mums, shopping at the center, listening to music at this same fucking venue for this Goddamn shit band - and he’s been missing it so, so much, he thinks he could start shaking. He wants to ask  _ Did you come here for me, too _ ? but his tongue won’t cooperate and he thinks that’s probably for the better, anyway.

“Yeah,” Harry says eventually, gaze back on the floor, “I’ve been trying.”

Louis hums, flicking his hair out of his eyes. He simultaneously feels too warm and too cold. He feels hazy. He isn’t sure what they’re talking about anymore. “Me, too.”

They chat for another minute or two, just basic conversation you’d have with an old acquaintance from school, and every time Harry uncomfortably mumbles, “So…” Louis wants to shout. This isn’t what this should feel like. They shouldn’t be strangers.

He hardly notices when the band wraps up their set and the lead singer hops off stage, mostly focused on Harry’s eyes, Harry’s lips, Harry. The noise level quiets immediately, the crowd starting to flood out onto the street, and a knot forms in Louis’ stomach when he sees one of the guys from Harry’s group gesturing at him to come with, followed by a teasing wink.

“Listen, Lou,” Harry starts, and Louis puts his hands up.

“I gotta get going,” he says. His voice sounds unfamiliar, even to himself. He can feel himself starting to unravel. “You take care.”

He watches Louis’ face intently, then nods, his expression unreadable. “Alright. You, too.”

Louis takes a step back as Harry gives him a polite smile before he slinks back off in the direction of the people Louis has never seen, will probably never see again. The guy from before - taller than Harry, and even from here, Louis can tell his eyes are blue - slips his arm around Harry’s frame, hand cupping his hip. Harry leans into it slightly, seemingly okay with it, and he glances over at Louis one last time before he exits the building.

He’s gone. Louis counts to 100 before he follows.

It’s extreme to say he feels like he’s just been through torture, but his entire body aches and his head is pounding and if he stops moving for long enough, he’s going to have to bend over and throw up right on this street. It’s still raining - harder than before - but he makes no attempt to hail for a cab. Instead, he stands there under the flickering streetlight, the most cliche he can possibly be, rain dripping down the bridge of his nose. Passerbys look at him, a few mumble for him to get out of their way, and one woman asks if he’s okay. He nods, shoving his hands inside his jacket to find a cigarette. He comes up with an empty pack.

“Just… Out,” he says, holding up the pack.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out her own, handing one over to Louis. “Go inside,” she says softly. “It’s late.”

He nods. “Thank you.”

 

Louis doesn’t go inside. He doesn’t walk home, either. Instead, he walks five blocks in the direction of Harry’s new flat, but the alcohol is starting to lose its magic and he feels like complete and utter shit. His teeth won’t stop chattering, his breath coming out in puffs, and his body feels heavy, the rain weighing him down. He gives in and hails for a cab just past two in the morning, his wet clothes sticking to the leather interior. He tells the driver Harry’s address and sits back with his eyes closed, willing his nausea to go away.

_ I just have to see him _ , he thinks, exhaling.  _ I just have to see him again, even though I know it’ll break me in two. _

He opens his eyes again when he feels the cab come to a complete stop; raindrops streak the window and he can’t clearly see Harry’s building. Everything is blurry other than the fact that he knows this is the wrong decision.

He needs to go home.

Alone.

“Sorry,” Louis says, clearing his throat. “I guess my mate isn’t home. Mind heading back in the other direction?”

“‘s long as you pay me,” the driver says, clearly joking, as he jerks the wheel.

“Yeah,” he says.

The driver turns the heat up. “Rough night?”

Louis scrolls mindlessly through his phone. No missed calls. “You could say that.”

“‘m sorry.”

“Well, it  _ is _ your fault.”

He laughs. “You’ve still got your humour. That’s key.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, squinting as Harry’s flat disappears from sight. He doesn’t feel like laughing.

* * *

It’s been three weeks since Louis’ run in with Harry. He tries not to let himself think about how broken and desperate he felt that night. Instead, he focuses on how he can pick himself back up, how he can get his normal semblance back. It’s easier said than done. Deleting the band’s entire discography from his music library is a start. It’s time to move forward. No more ghosts. Leaving what’s dead behind him.

He’s in the middle of sorting through bills early one Thursday evening when he gets a persistent knock on the door. He doesn’t bother asking who it is - though he really should - before he pulls the door open, and just like that, three week’s worth of progress is erased in a single breath.

“Hi,” Harry says, rocking back and forth onto the balls of his feet.

“Hi,” he says back, heart hammering in his chest. “What’re you--”

“I can’t stop thinking about how much I hated that night. With the band.”

Louis feels his face burning. “Harry…”

“You looked at me like you hated me,” he continues. “Or didn’t know me. I don’t know which one is worse.” He pushes in through the entryway like he still lives here, like he gets to make himself at home. “I miss you so fucking much, I feel like I can’t breathe half the time.”

The door slams shut behind them and Louis winces. He can’t form words, just murmurs, “It’s not, I’m…” He makes a face. “Harry, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Harry drags his fingers through his hair, clearly frustrated. “I want you to say that breaking up was stupid and that you miss me, too, and we’re done fucking around. That we’re doing this for real this time. No backing out. I’m in this. I’m never going anywhere again.”

“Jesus.” Harry’s staring at him in that intense, soul-baring way of his, and Louis feels dizzy. “But you said--”

“I don’t care what I said before,” he interrupts. “What I’m saying  _ now _ is I’ve missed you every single day for the past four months and it’s not getting any easier. It’s gotten  _ worse _ . It’s…” Harry takes a step forward to circle his hands around Louis’ wrists, and just that minimal contact has Louis’ eyes tearing up. “It’s hell, is what it is. We should never have done this. We should have worked through it. I’m tired of not waking up in this miserable, shit flat. I’m tired of not arguing with you. I’m tired of  _ being tired _ . Lou, I’m tired of missing all the things I thought I used to hate but as it turns out, those are the things I love the most.”

Louis doesn’t try to shake Harry’s grip away. It feels so easy, this. Too easy. Like it always has been until suddenly, it wasn’t. He doesn’t say anything, though, just lets Harry keep touching him, staring at him.

“Louis,” Harry whispers eventually, thumbs brushing against Louis’ wrist bones. “Am I completely out of line. What’re you thinking.”

_ I love you _ , he thinks.  _ I love you and I don't know how to stop. _ “I’m thinking…” He pauses to swallow.  _ I’m thinking that I hated that tall guy from the show. I hated how he was touching you. I’m thinking that I miss having all your clothes lying around. That I miss your shampoo and candles and plants. That I miss waking up with you. That nothing feels right anymore and I don’t know how to fix it.  _ “I’m thinking that I can’t believe you saw me in two-week old clothing, piss drunk, and  _ that _ was the moment you decided you couldn’t get over me.” It’s not what he meant to say, but he somehow already feels a million tons lighter.

Harry huffs out a laugh, his shoulders slumping. “You looked like my Louis.”

He tries to roll his eyes, but instead, he finds himself taking a step closer. “Unbathed and nauseous?”

“Beautiful,” he corrects simply. “Just. Everything.”

“Fucking fuck,” Louis mutters. “Are we really gonna do this again?”

“If you’ll have me,” Harry says quietly. “God, I hope you’ll have me.”

Louis’ already nodding. “The right way this time.”

“Whatever way you want,” Harry confirms, already pulling Louis into his arms. He buries his face into Louis’ neck, his breath hot against Louis’ skin, and Louis starts to feel himself unravel, yet again. This time, it’s okay.

Harry leans back after a minute - maybe two, maybe 10, Louis can’t tell - and doesn’t say anything else before he dips in to sweep his lips across Louis’. It’s unbearably sweet, achy, almost, and Louis’ hands are trembling against Harry’s back before he can figure out a way to stop them. Harry doesn’t mention it, just deepens the kiss, hands sliding down to Louis’ waist.

Louis  _ really _ wants to ask a thousand questions, wants to sit and talk and reassure the finally lessening pain in his chest. Wants to make sure they’re on the same page and that they’re both ready to work through this, to save what they couldn’t lose entirely. But then Harry is murmuring promises against Louis’ lips, his fingertips hot against the small of Louis’ back where his shirt has risen up, his body and voice so familiar that Louis can’t think about anything else, doesn’t want to. Instead, he forces himself to pull back, slides his hand into Harry’s, and guides him to his - their - bedroom without another word.

* * *

Louis wakes up in the middle of the night with a crick in his neck, his body angled poorly all night as the result of Harry laying pressed up against him, no room to breathe. But for the first time in months, it doesn’t feel like suffocation.

He squints in the darkness, studying the ink drawn into Harry’s chest and arms. He has to remind himself to ask Harry in the morning about the new one on his bicep. He traces over it with his thumb. Harry doesn’t stir, just sighs in his sleep.

Louis wills himself to roll back over and fall asleep again, but he’s stuck thinking about too many things, his brain foggy and muddled. They have a lot to work through; Louis, specifically, has too many things to focus on.

There’s one thing he can do right now, though.

He reaches for his laptop on the corner of his night stand and turns down the brightness on the screen as to not wake Harry. He clicks on the trash can icon, starts recovering about 40 files.

Time to bring those songs back to life.

Time to bring a lot of things back to life.


End file.
